


Death Lingers On

by phipiohsum475



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e03 The Great Game, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Happy Ending, John is Death, M/M, Magical Realism, Multidimensionality, Murder, canon character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-28
Updated: 2015-01-28
Packaged: 2018-03-09 10:21:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3246086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phipiohsum475/pseuds/phipiohsum475
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not one person in his life, not ever, has looked at him with open interest and esteem. Jim has seen it all, the hate, the fear, the revulsion, the pity, and he’s sick of it. He needs to see John again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death Lingers On

**Author's Note:**

> A special thanks to: [WhichWolfWins](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WhichWolfWins//) for the excellent beta!!

Jim saw him for the first time when he was eleven, the day Carl Powers died.

He didn’t walk so much as glide, and slid through the crowds unnoticed. He didn’t look out of place; in fact, he seemed to meld into the background. He was wearing a dark jacket over a plaid shirt and jeans. He could be someone’s shadow for all they noticed him. Jim saw him filter through a weeping woman like osmosis.

He descended into the water as though it wasn’t there, just a careful slope, and touched Carl, who had just stopped thrashing. A soft, yellow glow emanated from the boy’s still body and Jim watched as the man breathed it in. No one cared about this man as he hovered around the dead body. The lifeguard swam right through him.

Jim ran down the bleachers to the other side of the pool, where the man was smoothly ascending. He stared at the man, his eyes blinking to make sense of what was before him. The man looked, simply put, off. His skin looked as though it were rendered, not organic. He clearly lay in the ‘uncanny valley,’ and Jim fought through the sense of wrongness to see the stern jaw and tired eyes. The man was beautiful beyond the brain’s initial revulsion at the distinct incongruity with genuine human features.

The man turned to Jim, his stormy blue eyes reading him like an open book. Jim knew, without a doubt, that the man knew. Knew about the botulinum, the laces, the premeditated murder of a cruel and taunting child.

He regarded Jim curiously, without judgment, and smiled.

Within moments, he was gone.

-o-

Jim dismissed it later; a manifestation of a lonely, abused, neglected boy in need of rescue. He’s not that little boy anymore. There is no one left to abuse him or neglect him, he made sure of that. He’s clawed his way to the top of criminals and thugs by mental prowess alone. It’s so easy to convince the common classes to just kill each other.

Today is different. Today, Beckett must die, and Jim must do it himself. He prefers to stay at a distance, but needs must. He’s got a nice blade on him, and Jim knows Beckett is a dumb enough fuck that he’ll let Jim come real close.

Arterial blood drenches him in a nice slick warmth, and Jim can’t help but laugh at his ruined suit and the expression on Beckett’s moronic face. He doesn’t know why, but it’s the funniest damn thing he’s seen in ages. Jim’s doubled over, gasping, hand still clutching the blade, when he arrives.

The laughter ceases.

The man, if one could call him that, hovers over Beckett’s body, and it begins to glow a soft cornstarch blue. The man breathes in, taking the glowing essence within him, and Jim half expects his body to glow as he inhales, but the man’s body remains solid and dark.

He turns to Jim, eyes weary with the weight of a man carrying a load heavier than one should bear alone.

“I remember you,” he says, and his voice is apathetic, and surprisingly human. He is completely at ease with the gore drenching Jim’s suit. “You killed Carl Powers.”

Jim picks himself up straight and grips the blade with intent. “Yes,” he declares, his stance on edge, nervous energy bubbling to the surface.

“You must be awfully clever,” he compliments, eyes wide with curiosity and interest; an amused quirk on his lips.

“I’m fucking brilliant,” Jim corrects, and flips the blade in his hand. “Is that why I can see you?”

“I don’t know,” the man shrugs. “What do you see?”

“You look the same as everyone else, but you’re not. I’d say you take souls, but I don’t know that I believe in souls. If the stories of magic and supernatural are real, then perhaps you are a reaper, or Death himself?. Or maybe you are just my own hallucination. Care to find out?” Jim sneers, and lunges for the man at once, the gleaming blade in his outstretched hand

The man barely raises a hand to fight, but Jim finds himself on his back, relieved of his blade in a matter of moments.

“Huh.” The man says, looking at his coat, ignoring his assailant.

Jim props himself on his elbows, then sits up. He is unharmed, save his pride. He doesn’t understand the man, or his complete lack of reaction to being attacked. The man simply stares at his jacket, looking mesmerized at the cut from the blade. He presses his finger in the hole and stares at the red wetness on his finger.

He turns to Jim and tilts his head as he brings the bloodied finger to his lips, astonished. “James Moriarty, who are you?”

“I am the man who will own all of Europe in the next five years.” The confidence drips from his lips, the power echoing in his voice. His raging ego belies his nerves.

“I think you’re probably loads more than that,” he muses. “I might be seeing you again,” the man smirks with a sageful chuckle.

The man turns to go, and Jim blurts out, to his mortification, “Who are you?!”

He turns back and, with a soft smirk, he runs his fingers through his grayish blond hair, “I suppose you can call me John.”

-o-

Two years later, Jim is sitting next to a body, some big hulking beast of a man. He underestimated Jim, they always do, and now Jim listens to the last gasp escape his body, the blood gurgling as it does. He keeps his eyes open, dark and shining. He is waiting, hoping on bated breath. He’s conducted a series of experiments regarding method and proximity to death to determine what entices John to arrive. He dreams of John; those deep, all seeing eyes, the curious and thoughtful manner with which John regards him. Not one person in his life, not ever, has looked at him with open interest and esteem. Jim has seen it all, the hate, the fear, the revulsion, the pity, and he’s sick of it. He needs to see John again. To feel… human, oddly enough.

It is not lost on Jim that it takes something decidedly not human for him to feel this way, but he doesn’t care, not when before his eyes, John materializes.

Jim grins wickedly, blood still spattered over his face. “Hello John, lovely to see you again.”

John chuckles, and the noise doesn’t quite synchronize with the way his mouth moves. “Honestly, I’m surprised it has taken this long.” He gestures to the body. “May I?” he requests.

“Will you stay to talk afterwards?” Jim negotiates.

“Sure,” John smiles, intrigued; his eyes are unnaturally aglow.

As expected, the same familiar aura surrounds the dead man and, up close, Jim can see that John is not inhaling the aura, but devouring it. Once it’s gone, John turns to Jim.

“So, what do you want to know?”

Jim immediately knows his first question. “How do you know my name?”

“I’m the one to welcome you when you die.” John says this as though it is good news.

“I’m not dead yet,” Jim scowls.

“No.”

“Are you going to kill me now?”

“No. We’ll meet again. More than once, I’m sure.” John seemed pleased by this possibility.

“You said welcome, not devour. So you don’t consume me. Why not? Why did you ask me what I am?”

John smiles. “Phenomenal. I knew you’d come to that. I’ve been preparing an answer for you.”

“Imagine two dimensional perspectives. Paintings, drawings on flat surfaces that look remarkably like three dimensional objects. Imagine living in a world where everything tangible appears three dimensional, but you know that you are looking at nothing but paper. Nothing is real.

“This is my world. You live in three dimensions; I live much higher. I see this world as a series of flat, unreal objects - outside of the souls. But you, you James, when I look closer, you are the only three dimensional object in a world of flatness.

“It’s how I know that I will not devour you like the other souls you’ve seen, but that you will continue to exist, somewhat like me, after death. Perhaps as Death, perhaps not. I’ve never met someone like you, so I can’t be too sure. I’ve only heard stories.”

Jim grinned, all sharp and wicked teeth. “How do I see you again?”

John looked back, mouth passive but eyes wide and aglow. “I believe you already know the answer to that question.”

-o-

Jim revels in his meeting with John and decides to make the next one special. He waits until it is nearly unbearable, the weight of his own brilliance, drudgery and boredom collapsing his lungs. He suffocates under the building black cloud swirling his mind, his body, his soul.

He finds the person who is responsible for the collapse of his entire Welsh drug trade operation. He went by Liam by night and she went by Floris by day. Jim doesn’t know which was true, but it doesn’t matter as their blood seeps into his trousers. He lounges by them as the blood flows more weakly with each pump of their dying heart and, finally, when the thick liquid of life stops moving, Jim looks up.

John is there, smiling down at him with kindness in his eyes. “You’ve waited too long, James,” he chastises. “I don’t like to see you suffer like this.”

Jim leaps up. “I don’t know how many times I have you. I need to make it worth my while,” he flirts, but takes only a tentative step towards John. “Can I touch you?”

“I-” John hesitates, “-don’t know. I’ve never had anyone in this world touch me, until you cut me the second time we met,” he smirks, remembering. “It was amazing. But that was your weapon, not you. I could kill this version of you, but I’d rather not; I’m growing quite fond.”

“I don’t care,” Jim hastens to say, with another quick step forward. “Death is better than this bullshit. Do you know that I control the criminal classes of 14 countries and I’m still fucking bored?”

“Of course you’re bored,” John chortles and it is the first time Jim had heard him genuinely laugh. The sound is deep and throaty, with a hint of an echo. Jim swears the room physically lightens. It’s beautiful and remarkable, and without a second thought, Jim reaches out and pulls on John’s black jacket, and inhales John’s laughter as he presses his lips tight to John’s.

The floor drops from underneath them, or at least Jim assumes it has. He is floating, and the taste of John is every memory they’ve ever had together. Chlorine and the iron tang of blood, the metal of a blade and the leather patches on John’s jacket. He tastes like anger and longing and comfort and a home Jim never had. He can’t stop pressing himself to John and John embraces him. And Jim; Jim doesn’t have the words, but all of John, not just his body, envelopes all of Jim - heart, soul, body, mind and all the other little bits - and the world fades away to white.

When Jim wakes up, he finds himself on his bed, in the flat no one knows about. The dark swirl has lifted, and his chest blooms with life and wonder, and he sees the world laid out before him like a set of simple equations. He’ll have all of Europe within the year. The realization glitters inside him, and a deep echo reverberates throughout his skull, and he understands that some small part of John is with him now. With him forever.

He laughs until he cries and he cries until he falls asleep. He dreams of John’s laughter.

-o-

He knows now that the route to domination lies through Mycroft Holmes. The spark of John inside him feels more luminescent as he works circles around Holmes. He’s deft and silent in his dealings, and it takes Holmes quite some time to recognize the sign of his hand in the criminal connections in England. Holmes may be as brilliant as Jim, but he is blinded by his duty to the good of England.

And he, unlike Jim, has a weakness.

The murder of Jefferson Hope sparks a joy in him that Jim is now fluent in. John is pleased, excited. Something about Hope’s death is especially enticing. Jim craves more of John’s approval, the warmth of John’s attentions within. He suspects he might be an addict, but an addiction to Death only ends in the perfection of release.

He kisses Molly Hooper in the hall at Bart’s, and jealous rage fills him. He wants to push her away, and it takes but a moment to realize that it’s John, envious, and he’s in love. He plays with Molly like a cat with a mouse, and when the time comes, he asks to meet her friend - Mycroft Holmes’ weakness. The consulting detective who’s been dancing around his crimes for ages now.

But it’s not Sherlock Holmes that catches his eye when he enters the lab.

Standing behind him, innocent, unaware and undeniably human, is John.

Not his John. This one isn’t quite off like his John, and the spark of his John within him buries itself deep, shrinking and hiding and burrowing down to a single point of connection between he and Jim. The most he can leave without being gone, and Jim despairs.

When he leaves the lab, he pulls off Jim from IT and storms to his London flat. He calls Seb, demanding he extract himself from his next hit, and Jim catches on a train. He’s there in two hours, and the Romanian politician is still tied to a chair, surrounded by a cloud of Seb’s chain smoking.

He flashes his blade, the same one that called John to him before and orders Seb out. He slices the politician’s throat and watches the fountain fall.

“You met John Watson.” John speaks before Jim even sees him.

Jim turns on a dime, his eyes dark but piercing through the smoky haze. “Who the fuck was that? And why did you run and hide?”

John ignores the danger radiating from Jim’s every pore, and deliberates before settling on, “he was me, a long time ago.”

Jim throws his hands in the air, accidentally smacking the side of the politician’s head as he does so. It lulls to the side, and Jim’s irritation grits through his laugh, “what does that even mean?”

“I don’t know what else to tell you. Just that.”

“How is he you, if you are here?” Jim ran his fingers through his hair, gripping too tightly and pulling at the strands.

“I told you, time is nothing for me. Once, I was not here, and when I was, I had been here for an eternity.”

“What about others like you? Like me?” This was unacceptable. When Jim made it to whatever awaited him after the death of this body, he’d know all these answers, and more.

“I don’t know any. You’re the first.”

“So am I eternal?”

“You’re human, so for now, you’re finite. But maybe when you lose your humanity? I don’t know.”

“Should I just kill myself now and answer all these fucking questions myself?” Jim rolls his eyes, but holds the blade to his wrist.

“You’re not ready yet, I think. You might have to start over if you did it now.” John puts out a hand out to stop him. “There is more you need to know first.”

Jim places his palm on his face and pulls downwards, wiping the exasperation off his face.

“What do I need to know?”

John sighs and looks down. Jim knows he won’t like the answer. “I don’t know.”

Jim gives up. He goes with his next instinct and pounces.

He knocks John on his back, and straddles him. He unzips John’s coat and John is heaving, eyes wide with surprise and arousal) and his whole body flickers softly. Jim chuckles and takes the blade, and slices off both John’s shirt and vest with one quick motion, leaving flecks of the politician’s dried blood behind.

He drags the tip of the blade down John’s bare chest, watching it twitch and vibrate,  otherworldly, underneath him, and he can’t resist leaning over to tongue the faint line scratched in the surface of the synthetic flesh. It tingles electric; the sensations travel down his nerves like ecstasy.

He looks at John, eyes dark and lidded, wearing a wicked grin as he licks his lips. “I know one thing I need to know.”

-o-

Everything is easy after that. There is nothing that can scare Jim now. He takes not-quite-John, and sees Sherlock Holmes panic. He doesn’t care; his John is waiting for him. He looks rabid waiting for the trigger to pull; he’s actually disappointed that it’s the wrong day to die.

When all the king’s men come to him, with their pain and warfare, he fails to mention how John protects him. How the pain is made bearable by the pleasure of John within him, their physical connection making their spiritual one stronger. He manipulates the elder Holmes into betraying the younger under the guise of spilling himself. It’s all fun and games when you are in love with Death.

Once released, Jim works. He sees the plot laid out in front of him, and all outcomes are wonderfully sexy. Sherlock dies, he lives. He lives, Sherlock dies. They both live, not-quite-John dies, and eventually becomes his John, all in good time. It’s easy to force Sherlock’s hand - he has attachments. Jim’s only attachment is death itself, so he welcomes it with open arms. He knows that John will be there when he dies, which makes it heaven to behold.

And it is then, when he is on the roof with Sherlock, that it makes sense.

“…don’t think for a second I am one of them,” Sherlock says, and Jim sees the world fall into place before his eyes. It’s beautiful, it is, and Jim wonders if this is how John feels. He knows now, exactly how this will play out.

Sherlock will fake his death, not-quite-John will live, and he will die, by his own hand, with the gun he’d brought for just such an occasion.

And it’s so clear, he knows that it’s not an equation or intuition or foresight. He knows, because he was Sherlock once. Iterations ago, he was Sherlock, before he morphed and merged, incarnation after incarnation, into who Jim is today.

“You’re me. Thank you, Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you.” Jim babbles, excited to meet John once again. He prattles on a bit more, before pulling the gun from his pocket, and blowing the back of his head out.

Laying on the roof, he feels the life slip from him, and he sees John approaching.

“It’s time for you. For us,” John smiles, and reaches out a hand. Jim grabs it, and gasps.

He is removed from his body, and the world splits open. He sees now. Sees why John can’t answer his questions. There is so much more to the universe he’s never imagined, or been capable of imagining. Dimensions open up for him, and he realizes that, though he once didn’t exist here, now that he does, he knows it’s been an eternity. An eternity of his soul and John’s soul reaching out for each other, splitting the dimensions into halves until they found each other, and it culminates in this moment.

They both see, at once, their previous selves, dancing around each other, seeking each other, and they embrace in the joy of having finally found one another. When they travel to devour the souls that keep them alive, their human imitations refuse to part ways, clasping hands, and sharing the harvest.

Jim knows love more tremendously than possible when he was human, and he relishes it. He savors the death and destruction he follows and he finds, for once, that he is most decidedly not bored.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by: http://phipiohsum475.tumblr.com/post/109122907288/sheepy-doodle-twobearsforever-movie-about-a
> 
> A special thanks to: [Ariane Devere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/31651.html)


End file.
